


A Lake, a Skull and a Violin

by Silverblazehorse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblazehorse/pseuds/Silverblazehorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just after the event in A Study in Pink, John is adjusting to life in his new apartment with his new flatmate. Although he still feels lonely, the colour is returning to his life; every day, something extraordinary happens. But who is the man he now lives with, this self-described sociopath? This is a story about fascination and concern, careful approach and retreat, the beginnings of a lifelong friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lake, a Skull and a Violin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbria/gifts).



> Hi Penumbria, you asked for a BAMF John and no John/Mary so I placed the story in the beginning of the series. From the script of TBB it’s fairly clear that John doesn’t consider Sherlock a friend at that time so there must have been a time when John and Sherlock lived together but didn’t consider each other friends. Though John, in this story, is quite reflective, I think he’s still BAMF and not overly emotional. I hope you like it. Thanks you Ennui Enigma for your wonderful beta job.

John walked down Baker Street with two plastic grocery bags from Tesco’s. When one was trying to survive on a budget in London, the store was one’s greatest ally. Already today he’d sent out three job applications and therefore considered his work for the day to be done. Maybe he’d apply again tomorrow. Although he was a well-qualified GP, he needed a bit of luck if he were to find an opening somewhere in the city.

 

His luck had been changing recently though. He now had a place to live without going broke on his meagre army pension thanks to shared rent expenses with his new flatmate. His leg no longer pained him with every step he walked. And, he had quickly learned that if he actually wanted to eat the food that he bought at Tesco’s, it was best to consume the purchases within the same day. Living with his current flatmate wasn’t entirely dissimilar to living with a flock of locusts.

 

As John continued his stroll home from Tesco’s, he could see their apartment, 221b, from a distance. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. He watched without moving as an elegantly dressed man walked up to their front door and opened it with at key. John’s stomach twitched as he remembered how they’d met. The man was Mycroft Holmes.

 

As soon as Mycroft entered the house, a window opened upstairs. Then a long rope dropped to the pavement. For a moment, nothing happened. It was just John and the rope, both at a standstill. Then he saw a dark shape climbing out of the window. The climbing harness looked at odds with the climber’s impeccable black trousers. John dropped his bags fascinated by the unfolding spectacle shimmying down in front of his eyes.

 

Sherlock fumbled at the window’s ledge, checking the strength of his harness and construction. Then he inched further outside, head and back first, until he could put his feet against the wall just underneath the window. With a series of agile hops down the wall, and one against Mrs Hudson’s window, he abseiled down onto the pavement. On the ground, Sherlock quickly looked left and right while disconnecting from his harness. He spotted John, gave him a quick wink, and dashed toward the street corner in the opposite direction from which his brother, Mycroft had appeared.

 

John didn’t budge. He waited for the inevitable. It only took a second until he saw Mycroft Holmes poking his head out of the upstairs window then ducking back inside and disappearing again. John chuckled. For a few moments nothing happened, then Mycroft burst out of the front door. John quickly wiped the grin off his face. Mycroft gave him only a brief appraising glance.  Although John feigned surprise, Mycroft clearly wasn’t interested in John’s reaction

 

 ‘Je savais que grand-mère a fait une erreur. Je l‘ai toujours dit!’ Mycroft shouted at Sherlock’s disappearing figure.

Sherlock just rounded the corner. John heard the loud sound of an engine behind him and then a black car sped past him and double-parked. Mycroft jumped inside and the vehicle drove off in pursuit.

John picked up his Tesco bags and went inside. Mycroft hadn’t even bothered closing the door. He almost collided directly into Mrs Hudson blocking the hallway. 

She had a concerned look in her eyes. ‘What’s all this? I heard an awful lot of noise upstairs. Then I heard a loud banging on my window.’

‘Sherlock and his brother...’ John managed to suppress a smirk. ‘They argue.’

 

Mrs Hudson nodded in agreement and the pair exchanged pleasantries. Then John excused himself and bumbled upstairs. Upon entering the flat, he first of all noticed the burning smell. Sherlock must have been in the middle of an experiment before his hasty exit through the window. John checked to make sure Sherlock’s burner was switched off. Finding it was off; he turned his attention to the rope, which was tied to various pieces of furniture stacked against the wall. He sighed and started to unpack his bags.

 

He’d become used to the messes in their apartment and they no longer surprised him, even though they irritated him at times.  Theirs was an unusual household with unusual clutter. The peanut butter sat next to the bromide and the crackers were one shelf below the sodium peroxidase. John had never been the tidiest man in the world, but such eclectic arrangements took time to adjust.

 

He opened the fridge. It was empty except for a few unlabelled boxes on the top shelf. John knew better than to find out what was inside them. He loaded his groceries onto the lower shelves of the fridge, bread, milk, and cheese. He’d skipped the dinner ingredients because he planned to go out this evening. There simply was no point in buying food ahead of time. He’d once asked why Sherlock always ate the food he’d purchased. ‘Because I’m not on a case’ was the rather dissatisfying answer.

 

Once he finished the chore of stocking the fridge shelves, he returned the furniture back where it belonged, well, roughly where each piece typically stood. He rolled up the rope, made a cheese sandwich, a cup of tea and sat down. Sherlock’s skull stared at him from the mantelpiece. He stared back. The silence somehow came as a surprise. It was as if it gathered around him and tried to suffocate him.

 

When Sherlock finally returned, he was in a mood. John had been surfing the Internet when Sherlock entered, but in reply to his greetings, Sherlock only offered a growl. John shrugged. He returned to the article about UKIP he had been reading. It wasn’t very interesting.

Sherlock strode purposefully to the kitchen table, switched on his Bunsen burner, and picked up his pipette. The pipette rattled as Sherlock adjusted it to the right amount.

‘So did you talk to your brother then?’ John asked carefully.

Sherlock scowled. ‘Inevitably; he was in a car, I was on foot.’

John heard a bang as Sherlock slammed his pipette into the tip box.  Several tips flew onto the ground, now contaminated. The intended tip was well attached now. John vaguely wondered whether Sherlock would ever get it off the pipette again.

‘What did Mycroft say about your grandmother?’

‘Grammaire, not grand-mère. Grammar.’

‘Fine, what did he say about grammar?’

‘That my French stinks.’

John shrugged. ‘Quite an argument about French grammar then.’ He didn’t quite believe it.

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, his attention was entirely focussed on his experiment. The silence returned.

 

More than ever, John was glad to leave the flat as he headed towards Hyde Park. He still had a few hours to kill so he decided to take the long way around the park. Life in London without a significant amount of money could be boring at times. Since lodging with Sherlock in 221b though, the psychosomatic pain in his leg had disappeared. He discovered to his glee that his action radius was now greatly expanded. When the weather was good, he often went on long walks in hopes of improving his overall health. He’d created a route that went from home through Hyde Park, Green Park, Big Ben, across Westminster Bridge, and then back across the river. Sometimes he strolled back through the city, other times when he was more tired, he’d return via the nearest tube station.

 

It was a bit cold today but by the time he stomped all the way to Hyde Park he found himself more than warm enough. The rhythmic cadence of his steps lulled his mind into a pleasant flow of recent memories. John reflected on how his life had changed for the better. He still felt the loneliness, an inner physical pain, but at least he had one friend now. Admittedly, having a job might enhance his happiness, but the immediate stress of not knowing how he was going to afford everything had lifted. As a side bonus, he’d also met a number of remarkable people on his cases with Sherlock, including a murderous cabbie.

 

John’s face smirked involuntarily as he recalled the incident with the cabbie. It wasn’t the first time he’d shot a man, but most definitely the first time he’d done so in London. In the past, he’d always managed to keep war separate from civilian life. Now the two had intertwined. The realisation made him feel strangely excited and guilty at the same time. He wasn’t sure the combination was supposed to feel so fun in spite of Sherlock’s comments to the contrary. 

 

As John passed Buckingham Palace on his walking route, he remembered the policewoman, Donovan. _He’s a psychopath_ , she’d said. _One day we’ll find a body and he’ll be the one who put it there._ He couldn’t really make sense of Sherlock, who’d self-described as high functioning sociopath.

 

He crossed Westminster Bridge and continued over the southern bank of the Thames. Then, unlike his usual routine, he turned left onto the Millennium Bridge, keeping the Globe on his right hand side.  He walked back into the city, past St. Paul’s Cathedral, toward the Museum of London. He then entered St. Bart’s Hospital, and headed to the mortuary, where he would meet his one friend in London: Mike Stamford.

 

As he hoped, he found Mike in the examination room. Mike was just finishing his last lecture to the first year medical students standing around him and the examination table. Mike greeted John with a quick nod and then focussed back on wrapping up his lecture. He demonstrated with talented, precise movements how the tendons in the lower arm controlled the fingers using a real human cadaver arm. John noticed there was another body in the back of the room. The face was plastered in plastic to protect the body’s identity.

 

The room smelled of formaldehyde, a smell John had used to associate with dead bodies as a young student. He knew better now. The clinical, respectful ways the bodies were treated here was miles away from the reality he knew as an army doctor.

 

Mike finished the class, giving the students the next couple of chapters to read. Some of them scribbled down notes. As the students were filed out of the room, Mike turned to John and threw a glance at his left leg.

‘What happened to the crutch?’

‘Yeah, well,’ John cleared his throat. How the hell was he supposed to explain about the psychosomatic limp? Never mind that the cure turned out to be a crazy run chasing after a serial killer cabbie. ‘Turned out it got better.’

Mike grinned broadly. ‘Sherlock was right then.’ He inclined his head towards the door. ‘Let’s go, shall we?’

John managed to hide his relief.

 

They went across the street, onto Long Lane. Although there were plenty of bars around, Mike went straight to The Old Red Cow, a pub with a traditional looking façade. John imagined Mike went there often after work with his colleagues.

 

The interior looked classical and modern at the same time, light wooden furniture and bottles of craft beer on display, menus written on blackboard. John relaxed. It almost gave him the illusion of being normal, having drinks with a friend in a nice pub. The contrast to the recent events couldn’t have been starker.

 

They ordered a pint each and chatted while they waited, though it was mostly Mike who did the talking. Mike mentioned that a research paper had been recently retracted once it was discovered that one of the authors, a prominent post-doctorate, had invented data points. John shook his head in sad agreement with the state of science these days. Mike prattled on then about a neuroscience student that was recently caught ‘borrowing’ a hippocampus from the morgue.

 

‘And how are you? What’s happening in your life?’ Mike suddenly interrupted his monologue.

John thought back over the recent events in his life. He had assisted on a crime scene. He’d met an Orwellian type politician. He’d run through London after a cab finally shooting and killing a man with his illegal handgun. He shrugged. ‘Not much, Mike. I still don’t have a job.’

‘Bummer, mate, I’m sure something will come along.’

‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’ Uncomfortable again, John turned his attention to his drink. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass, a tiny froth of bubbles evaporated at the edges. When he looked up again, he saw that Mike was staring at him with a humorous glint in his eyes.

‘Now tell me,’ he said with a curious grin, ‘what’s it like living with Sherlock?’

‘Well, interesting. I joined him on a case,’

‘You did? He never invites people for anything. What happened?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m allowed to tell you, I’ll actually be writing a blog in the near future, would you like to read it?’

‘Sure, wow, on a case with Sherlock, what do you think of him?’

‘I’m not sure I understand him. What’s he like to work with when you’re with him in the lab at Bart’s?’

‘I don’t really work with him,’ Mike answered with a rueful grin. No one does, really. He has his own arrangements. God knows how he managed them. He does some kind of forensic research. He’s an interesting character. I’ve never seen a human so completely uninterested in social interaction. You’d better watch your boundaries with him or he’ll just trample all over you, and even then...’ Mike’s voice trailed off, remembering. ‘Well, we get on all right.’ He shrugged.

John laughed.  ‘He said he’s a high functioning sociopath.’

 ‘Yeah, he says that.’

‘You think it’s true?’

‘The term doesn’t exist in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for psychiatric disorders so it’s literally a meaningless phrase. Some people presume he has autism but he reads people better than, well, people do. I’d be very surprise if he’s that far along on the autistic spectrum’

‘The correct term is antisocial personality disorder,’ John said. He glanced around the pub. It had filled up now, couples, groups of friends, all talking, laughing, and having a good time. He felt content here with Mike, but Mike wasn’t someone he considered a close friend. He realised that he had a craving for human connection, setting him up as the perfect victim for a person with APD. He remembered how Sherlock read him like he read a crime scene.  Meticulous. Accurate. Frightfully accurate, down to the last surprising detail.

 ‘Maybe he’s just inexperienced.’ Mike thought aloud. ‘Somehow the man seems to have arranged his life in a way that he can avoid almost every interaction with living people. As if he were the only member of his exclusive tribe.’

‘Why would anyone do that? Does he hate people that much?’ John shook his head.

‘I guess he does.’

‘Somehow that doesn’t reassure me.’

 

The next day, Sherlock asked John to join him on a case in Regent’s Park. A body had been found on the side of Boating Lake, which was within walking distance from Baker Street. John had stayed out late the previous evening with Mike and now he rather regretted at least some of the beers consumed. When the two arrived at Regent’s Park, the area was closed off and a white tent was standing over the victim. John immediately recognised the policewoman who approached them. It was Sally Donovan.

 

 ‘Here again?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve actually befriended hm. Seriously?’

John took a quick glance to Sherlock who’d ducked under the tape and gone to Lestrade. ‘Colleague,’ he corrected the sergeant.

She shook her head, but allowed him to enter the crime scene. He joined Sherlock and Lestrade, who gave both of them a protective jumpsuit to wear over their clothing to preserve the evidence. Lestrade waited while John and Sherlock changed into the blue Tyvek.

‘By the way, this one’s a bit more horrific than usual,’ Lestrade said when they’d dressed, giving John a piercing look. John just nodded.

 

Lestrade opened the tent. The victim was a male with dark hair and dressed in jeans. The body was swollen, obviously from lying in the water. A deep cut across the throat indicated the probable cause of death. From the corner of his eye, John noticed that Lestrade was studying him intently. However, John had seen far worse.

Sherlock squatted next to the body and studied the cut. ‘Carved, why carved?’ he muttered to himself.

‘How do you mean carved?’ Lestrade said. ‘You cannot make any sense out of that mess.’

Sherlock sighed impatiently. ‘Grass is green, sky is blue, the sun goes around the earth, and this cut was made with a carved knife, but why carved? It doesn’t make sense.’ He looked around, as if the surroundings might cough up a clue.

Lestrade cleared his throat. ‘The earth goes around the sun.’

John heard Sally Donovan giggle from the other side of the tent.

‘Then why do people say “sunrise” and “sunset”, might as well call it “earthrise” and “earth set”.’?

Lestrade sighed. ‘Yes that would be more logical. It still doesn’t change the fact that the earth goes around the sun.’

Sherlock looked at John, John nodded. ‘It really does orbit the sun, yeah.’

‘Very enlightening,’ Sherlock griped. ‘Now can we focus on something that really matters? The facts here on earth, the planet we’re actually living on.’

 

He turned his back and studied the crime scene again. John and Lestrade followed his movements, but Sherlock chose to work in stubborn silence. After another glance at the body, he moved out of the tent, studying the environment, especially the ground. Lestrade followed Sherlock towards the shore of the lake, but John remained just outside the tent. The forensic team had already photographed and secured the various traces they had found on the crime scene. John felt it was wiser not to interfere.  He noticed that Sherlock was now giving full attention to the muddy footsteps on the embankment.

‘Found anything?’ Lestrade asked.

‘Shut up.’ Sherlock bit back.

Lestrade shrugged. Deciding to give Sherlock some space, he walked back to John.

 

John indicated his head towards Sherlock. ‘He can’t be easy to work with.’

‘He can’t be easy to live with,’ Lestrade shot back.

John laughed, feeling somewhat relieved. ‘Your sergeant thinks he’s a psychopath.’

He looked at Lestrade, who sighed. ‘Who knows? I surely hope not.’

‘What do you think?’

‘My gut tells me no, but I’ve been wrong before.’ He smiled grimly.

‘Do you know why he fell to using illicit drugs?’

‘No, we really don’t have that kind of relationship. People use drugs for all sorts of reasons: boredom, lack of stimulation, curiosity, showing off, and loneliness.’

‘Yes, but him?’

Lestrade shrugged. ‘Probably all of the above.’

 

A splashing sound startled both of them. John looked up and saw that Sherlock, still in his protective gear, wading into the lake.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lestrade yelled at him.

Sherlock didn’t answer. The water now reached up to his waist, and from his stiff movements, John surmised that the water was freezing. The detective glanced at the shore, then back to an imaginary point somewhere on the water, estimating distance. He moved in a half-circle through the water. Suddenly he ducked down and disappeared under the water. After a few moments he emerged, holding up a long carved knife in triumph.

‘Great, now get out of there,’ Lestrade yelled.

Sherlock splashed his way back. ‘The man lost his footing when he was throwing the knife away,’ he said and handed the knife to Lestrade. ‘It couldn’t have travelled more than fifteen yards.’

Lestrade rolled his eyes when he saw Sherlock’s smug expression but carefully took the knife with a gloved hand, placing it into an evidence bag.

‘Get dry you fool,’ he said, walking away.

 

John followed Sherlock out of the enclosed area and they stripped off their suits. Sherlock shivered in his soaking wet garments, skin paler than usual. His shallow breaths did little to disguise how the chilling water had caused him to hyperventilate. 

‘Don’t they have divers at the Met?’ John asked.

‘Would’ve taken ages,’ Sherlock grunted. The stiffness in his jaw slurred his words.  He avoided John’s glance. Resolutely, the dripping detective ignored John’s help to dry off and warm up and started to tromp home, leaving a trail of water droplets. He swayed as he walked, muscles weakened due to the cold. John ran after and caught up to him.

‘Take off your coat,’ he demanded.

Sherlock’s expression was a mixture of surprise and irritation. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re developing hypothermia. Take off your coat, jacket and shirt.’ As he spoke, John quickly whipped off his own jacket.

Sherlock remained motionless, his eyes opened in surprise. ‘We’re almost home.’

‘I’m a doctor and let me tell you, hypothermia cannot be cured by stubbornness.’

‘You’d be surprised how many things can be cured by stubbornness.’ Sherlock obstinately persisted, his words properly slurring now.

‘Very few of them medical,’ John insisted.

 

Despite himself, Sherlock cracked a smile, stopped and did as he was told. John took his wet clothing as he fumbled through the motions of changing. Sherlock’s fingers were yellow and numb and he painfully struggled to undo each button. John resisted the urge to help him though. The man’s pride had been wounded enough. When Sherlock finished, John handed over his own jacket.  Sherlock shrugged on the proffered garment without comment. The two continued home in rapid strides. John made a mental note to stock up in medical supplies; first on the list were emergency blankets.

 

Once home, Sherlock took the shortest route to the shower while John hung up the wet coat to dry. He followed Sherlock’s earlier trek up the stairs and since he’d become quite cold too, he boiled the kettle, turned up the heating, and wrapped himself in a vest. As the warmth returned to his fingertips while he sipped his tea, he sighed contentedly and settled down to his laptop. Today had been busy but it was nothing compared to previous recent events of the last case.  Remembering the details he relieved the adrenal rush again -- serial suicides, a frenetic chase through London, an unhinged cabbie – all had started with a victim in pink. It was a fun little detail and readers liked that sort of stuff. Perhaps he could weave it into the description of the case write up, maybe include it in the title?

 

John was fully consumed in his writing when Sherlock emerged wearing a dressing gown over his tracksuits. He disappeared into the kitchen, came out with a mug of tea, and plopped down into his chair.

John shot him a smile. ‘Warmed up again?’

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. ‘I just came out of a hot shower, you must be familiar with the concept of heat transfer.’

‘Yes, of course.’ John sighed.

‘Then why are you asking?’

‘Just trying to be nice.’

 

John decided to focus on his blog again. What a strange flatmate he had, someone who could practically read people’s minds but was unfamiliar with any type of common niceties. At least it was clear that Sherlock wasn’t trying to manipulate him right now. He looked at his flatmate again. Sherlock was staring into the distance. He looked tired and John couldn’t tell whether he was thinking or falling asleep.

 ‘You really didn’t know that the earth goes around the sun?’

Sherlock blinked, shaken out of his reverie. ‘Oh, just shut up. It’s not important.’

‘No, but everyone knows-‘

‘I really, really, preferred the skull.’ Sherlock got up, went to his music stand and picked up his violin.

John braced himself mentally. He’d heard Sherlock’s screeching and plucking on the thing and he’d often wondered why the man bothered with sheet music at all. Sherlock resumed his former plucking, dissonant tones that lacked any cohesive harmony. 

 

John tried to block out the irritating sounds by concentrating on his blog. _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, what’s incredible though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things_ , he wrote, grinning to himself.  Whoever he was, Sherlock surely took specialisation to a whole new level, one seemingly out of the reach of mere mortals, as if he didn’t want to be one. As if he wanted to be something different, something larger than life, a stranger. He’d probably always been one.

 

John put his laptop away and strolled thoughtfully over to the mantle to pick up Sherlock’s skull. He gave Sherlock a sideways look but Sherlock didn’t protest. There was no question that it was a genuine human skull. Once, there would have been a real face on those bones and brain inhabiting it, a real person. A man or a woman, John couldn’t tell, though he was sure Sherlock knew. He could ask him but he quite liked not knowing. He felt better letting the skull remain just another object.

He turned to Sherlock. ‘So you never had any friends? Never?’

A pained look flashed across Sherlock’s face. It only lasted a millisecond and then it was gone again, replaced by the neutral professional facade. ‘I told you, John. I don’t have a use for human relationships in any way, shape, or form. It’s a distraction from matters of real importance.’ He focussed his attention on the music stand and leafed through the sheets. 

 

Sherlock’s pronouncement wasn’t unexpected to John but he still felt taken aback. He thought of all the friends he’d had over the years and how he’d wished he’d kept in touch with them more. People from high school, people from uni, and the army. They’d relied on each other, made jokes together, and discovered the world together. He could not imagine what he’d be like if he had never had those experiences. He looked down at the skull nestled in his hands. Its hollow eyes stared back at him.

 

The sound of surprisingly soft violin tones startled him out of his reverie. Sherlock had taken his bow and started playing. It was a classical piece that John recognised but didn’t know the name. It was a sad piece and he thought he’d recognised a triple time. He realised that when he’d thought Sherlock was randomly plucking strings, he had actually been tuning his violin. Now it turned out he was a very skilled musician. Gone was the cold mathematical mind. The deep vibrations seemed to communicate pure emotion, uncorrupted by thought or language, speaking of worlds that cannot be described.

 

‘I didn’t see that coming, ‘John exclaimed.  ‘I didn’t know you were so talented. How many years have you played violin?’

Sherlock smiled a genuine smile. ‘Since I was a kid. My grandmother was a painter, a real artist. She gave me my first violin. I think she believed I was an artist too. Mycroft always believed it was a mistake. In his mind, artists just go broke and do a lot of drugs. He might have had a point.’ His smile became a bit more cynical.

‘Well, I think you’re a fantastic player.’

‘Really?’ Sherlock looked honestly surprised. It seemed a strange for someone who was otherwise so self-assured of his abilities. It must be another one of his blind spots.

John smiled back. ‘Why don’t you play another piece?’


End file.
